


Tradition

by KateKintail



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Kilts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 21:37:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateKintail/pseuds/KateKintail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is best explained as “Qui-Gon in a kilt” It came about from watching too many movies in which Liam Neson dies, Rob Roy not being one, but being a movie that has been described as the above phrase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tradition

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: George Lucas has more creativity that I shall ever have. And wouldn’t you know? He has more(er, all!) rights to the universe as well!

The setting suns reflected in the mirror were a difficult pair to compete with, even for the likes of Obi-Wan. He squinted at his image, raising a bent arm to his forehead, shading his eyes for a moment as his other hand stuffed his tunic into his tight pants. It resulted in a struggle as he was too tired to undo his belt and tuck it in more properly. Finally, he managed to look as presentable as he needed to, and left the bright mirror.

He settled down, cross-legged, on a giant, fluffed pillow in the center of the room. His fingers made quick, experienced work at the few long strands of hair he possessed, putting them in a tight braid. Now he was showered, shaven, dressed, and all ready for the ceremony and banquet. That was one ready, at least. His jedi-young eyes looked over at the partition in the room. “Master, we’re going to miss the occasion entirely if you take much longer.”

There were sounds of shuffling, hesitating. Then, finally, a reply. “Padawan, I am not attending the banquet in this.”

Obi-Wan, despite himself, smiled. It was a rare occasion when Qui-Gon was forced to do something he did not want to do. Usually, that was Obi-Wan’s place. “Oh, but you have to. It’s traditional dress. You’d not want to disrespect the royalty after all we’ve been through here, would you?”

Qui-Gon had not been pleased when the package with the required ceremony ware had arrived late that afternoon. He had not let Obi-Wan so much as catch a glimpse of it. And while a secretive Qui-Gon was not something to be suspicious of, a hesitant, snappy one was. Qui-Gon could be wise, he could be noble, and he could be cold, but he never mixed negative emotion with reality, and certainly never with opinion. “You have no idea how awful it feels to wear this. Let alone what I must look like!.”

Curious and growing much more curious by the moment, Obi-Wan pulled his legs up, bending in front of him and wrapping his arms around his knees in anticipation. “Then step out from behind the screen and let me see. It can’t be all that bad.”

“Oh, you think so, do you, Obi-Wan?” his voice was filled with strong rebuttal. “It’s as bad as all that, and it’s as bad as anything else, as well!”

But Obi-Wan was convinced nothing short of a bundle of thorns tied on with twine could be as bad as Qui-Gon was making it sound. “Master…” perhaps if he could not reason with Qui-Gon he could try comforting?

Laughing in frustration, “But you’re right that I do not have a choice in the matter if we do not want to offend. And so…” he paused for a good moment, his hand peaking out from behind the screen, gripping it as if he would use it to pull himself into view. “Your word that you will not laugh when I come out?”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows raised. Could anything possibly be so bad that it would be both uncomfortable and funny? “My word, Master.” He squeezed his arms around his legs. Such a build up… he simply had to see what all the fuss was about.

“All right then.” Another pause, pregnant, then Qui-Gon stepped out. His shirt resembled a tunic, only it was of lighter fabric, so light that it was approaching translucent. A large swatch of cloth hung over his shoulder, down his front in a diagonal, blending with what he wore on the lower parts. It was… a skirt. And not just any skirt, a heavy, thick woolen one. And the color of the fabric was simply one of the most dreadful possible; it was a medium mustard, with thin lines of red and purple striping the fabric at right angles to each other.

Obi-Wan had to use his quick Jedi reflexes to slap his hand overtop his mouth so that he did not let the laugh escape. As it was, he was certain the surprised and amused smile had been visible for too long. “It’s… um… it’s a…it’s a…” What it was, was a skirt.

“I feel like a woman.” Qui-Gon stated, wiping his hands down his front to rid himself of any wrinkles. Then he crossed his arms over his chest with a sigh. “Or a tart.”

Obi-Wan was forced to bite his lip rather than laugh; after all, he was as good as his word. “Anyone who had seen us in bed together this morning before the dawn might label both of us that, Master.” 

Shaking his head. “That is not the point, Padawan. I’m wearing a skirt.”

Snorting, he had to close his eyes to keep from laughing again. He tried his best to soothe, “But Master Qui-Gon, shouldn’t you be used to this after ceremonial Jedi robes?”

Grumbling, “You know very well there as so few occasions to wear them. And those go straight down to the floor. This,” he looked down disapprovingly at his bare lower legs, “this ends so abruptly down my legs that I’m afraid my more delicate parts will be spotted.” His eyes grew wide. “Force! How will I ever manage to sit?”

The corner of the pillow was being squeezed tightly, as Obi-Wan’s tight fist took out his inability to laugh on it.

“They call it a kilt, rather than a skirt,” Qui-Gon continued. “I suppose, because it’s much heavier, and thicker and made of something that itches terribly.” He uncrossed his arms long enough to rake his fingers up and down the side of his thigh once.

Raising an interested eyebrow, Obi-Wan’s thoughts immediately turned from amusement to something more mischievously delicious. “So that is the traditional dress. What is the state of the traditional undergarments?”

It was nearly enough to make the learned Jedi Knight and Master blush. Almost. “Obi, that is private issue, none of your business.”

“Qui,” he replied slyly, “since when are your privates none of my business?”

Qui-Gon shot him a look, reminding him that they were off world, not in the comfort of their own domain. Reminding him that they were to be attending a most formal affair in not so long. And that they were not in a position to be anything more than master and apprentice at present.

But Obi-Wan had already passed the point of formalities. “My question still stands,” he said to Qui-Gon’s silence.

As a matter-of-factly, “There are none.”

The padawan learner tilted his head pensively. “Mmm.” Lowering his hand, Obi-Wan was certain there would not be another matter to laugh upon. He was sitting still, and looking up at his Master from such an angle that gave him rather frisky ideas indeed. He stretched out his legs, crossing them with a sigh. Then he smiled a smile. “Then upon the recent evidence, as well as your appearance, I form the opinion that I rather like the traditional dress here.” He stood, bringing his knees back up, and then unfolding his body upward. He took a few steps over, taking the rare initiative in maters of the flesh. With one hand on the thin shirt, Obi-Wan felt the powerful chest beneath. His other hand ran up his master’s arm, sliding beneath the lose short-sleeve to the firm muscles there. He gave it a squeeze. “What time is it now, Master?”

Softly, with very little emotion as everything was overshadowed by a breathless wanting, “there is time enough.”

“Mmm,” Obi-Wan replied. That was the response he’d been hoping for. “Then I certainly do like the ceremonial wares here.” He then dropped down directly to his knees, his hands following him down by running straight down Qui-Gon’s front. Down, down the chest and waist, down to rest upon the knees. The fuzzy, hairy knees of his master. Qui-Gon did not have a lot of hair, as far as men went, but when it was so bare and not used to being unexposed, it was certainly an attention grabber to a young padawan who was used to seeing it only in the shower, or feeling it in bed when they shed their sleep pants to become better acquainted. Choosing to take action rather than mull reflectively, he squeezed the knees briefly to give Qui-Gon one last chance to object. But when he heard no objection, he ran his hands back up, following the curves of the legs this time. Up the strong thighs on the fronts, his hands between the flesh and hair and the scratchy, wool fabric. Then they slid to the inner thighs, smooth and soft. The back of his hands met with the gentle cock as it slowly met him with lush, desirable hardness. Obi-Wan grasped the warm balls, looking up at and into Qui-Gon’s eyes, soft, asking for permission.

Qui-Gon, opening his mouth halfway and starting to close his eyes in blissful reaction to the touches, managed but a nod.

It was approval enough for Obi-Wan who beamed, keeping his hands in place and in work, and then ducked his head beneath the kilt with one fluid, smooth, and arousing movement.


End file.
